Ugly
by watercolour dreams
Summary: He had called her 'ugly' when they were seven. SH/OC


**Author's Note: **Hello there! Firstly, I want to thank each and everyone who has followed this story or reviewed it; your encouragement means a lot to me. Currently, I have finally found time to start this again (I did a big rewrite) and I am aiming to update at least once a fortnight — fingers crossed! Any feedback would be fab, otherwise, please enjoy.

I do not own the Holmes family and Conan Doyle's universe. I promise to return them relatively intact.

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><p><strong>Ugly<strong>

**Chapter One**

November 30th, 1993

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><p>He had called her ugly when they were seven. It was the first he had commented about her looks, but seven-year-old Eulalie Gallagher hadn't given much thought to the words since she had just fallen off the park swing.<p>

"Of course someone would look ugly covered in blood, tanbark and tears," Eulalie had retorted to the less than abashed Holmes child.

It wasn't until she was twelve that she started to take his words to heart.

It was easy for Sherlock to jaunt about her looks with his quick wit and stunning features — "he has the face of an angel" her parents had often remarked, but her father had often added, "that looks can be very deceiving". Mr. Gallagher was correct in that regard.

No, Sherlock Holmes had told her that her freckles made her appear as if she suffered from a "dermatological disease".

Eulalie had stared at him blankly, unfazed by his remark, however, that night she came to the revelation that she did have an abnormal amount of freckles. Twelve-year-old Eulalie did not know how to interpret this fact, so she stored the evidence for later.

It may be important to notify the reader now that Eulalie was the youngest of a set of twins. Niamh, her elder fraternal sister, outshone her in every possible way. Where people considered Eulalie anti-social, bumptious and cruel, Niamh was gregarious, eloquent and kind. Where Eulalie was systematic, astute and stoic, Niamh exemplified charisma, modesty and sympathy — the perfect little gift for Mrs. Gallagher's sorority obsession.

Therefore, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, when Eulalie caught Niamh entangled with Sherlock in her sheets, Eulalie didn't know what to do.

That night, Eulalie stood in front of the Gallagher bathroom scouring her face while the couple did unimaginable things in the next room. Eulalie scoured until her freckles were hidden behind a glossy sheen of red. Sighing, she had washed the blood off her hands and retired to bed, perplexed and dazed as to what compelled her to suddenly regard herself as ugly, and as Eulalie had watched the clock chime over to November 30th, she wished herself a very happy birthday.

"Eulalie."

Mrs. Holmes' voice cut through her reverie. It was the morning of Eulalie and Niamh's (and Sherlock's) birthday and Eulalie, Mrs. Holmes, Niamh and Sherlock were seated around the dining room table idly picking at their breakfasts. Eulalie's mother was in the kitchen, preparing the banquet for that night.

"Hmmm?" hummed Eulalie.

Mrs. Holmes looked so much like Sherlock. They held the same retroussé noses and piercing eyes, but unlike Sherlock, her voice was filled with warm honey.

"What happened to your face dear?"

Eulalie coughed.

"I—I attempted to remove my freckles," mumbled Eulalie. Niamh pursed her lips at her younger sister, only a dust of freckles covering the bridge of her screwed nose. "They're ugly, you see," finished Eulalie dejectedly.

"Yes. Yes, they are," agreed Sherlock, quickly.

"Sherlock!" chided Mrs. Holmes. The young man blinked his eyes in confusion before he continued.

"A more rational option would've been to wear a copious amount of make-up to disguise or lessen the freckles," Sherlock paused, his brows knitted. "You were never one for vanities though."

Mrs. Holmes regarded Sherlock with disdain.

"Eulalie, I think they're endearing," Mrs. Holmes placed her teacup neatly on her saucer then inclined Eulalie's chin towards her with her forefinger, "they make you, you. Though I insist that you see my friend, a dermatologist, immediately, to prevent your pretty face becoming scarred. Don't you agree?"

Eulalie nodded her head slowly and Mrs. Holmes dropped her finger from Eulalie before standing and placing her teacup, saucer and cutlery on her empty plate. "In fact," continued Mrs. Holmes, "I shall take you now."

Eulalie choked.

"What?"

Mrs. Holmes regarded the blonde with firm resolution and a quick nod.

"I will take you now. So, quick! Quick! Finish your breakfast and we will leave immediately," finished Mrs. Holmes, then she lifted her cutlery and plates into one hand and moved out of the room, down the corridor and to the kitchen. Sherlock, Niamh and Eulalie watched her leave the room, listening to the click of her heels on the wooden floor.

"Your mother is so strange," said Niamh with a little smile. Sherlock paid her no attention; rather, his face was set in a very deep scowl that Eulalie was sure if the wind changed it would stay that way forever.

"It's my birthday," begun Sherlock, "and she'd rather spend it with you," finished Sherlock, placing his eyes coldly on Eulalie.

Eulalie cast her eyes down to her plate while Niamh placed her hand on Sherlock's. Half finished toasted sourdough, spinach relish and bacon stared back up at Eulalie.

"Sherlock, Eulalie needs medical attention," Niamh's voice was placating, like talking to a little child, "and your mother has kindly offered that. Let her have that. Plus," Niamh paused, "you'll have your mother for the rest of the day."

Sherlock grumbled.

"And while she's gone," Niamh lowered her voice to a husky whisper, "you'll have my company."

Eulalie stabbed her plate viscously, the runny yolk of her egg cascading over her fork and onto the white porcelain. Eulalie didn't need to look to know that a smirk curled Sherlock's lips right now.

It kind of hurt, thought Eulalie, not quite understanding why her mind was thinking such thoughts, that he enjoys her company more than mine. We used to play pirates together.

And they had.

When Sherlock had been eight, he had wanted to be a pirate, exclaiming that one day he would rule the high seas, plunder villages and do it all with the logic of a chess-master. Sherlock had been eight of course and like all young children he had grand delusions of his future, dreams that were full of illogical grandeur that resulted in broken arms and six-week casts. However, unlike a broken bone that could be realigned, Sherlock's grand ambitions about his future did not change.

It was as Eulalie was twirling a piece of bacon around her fork that her mother, Mrs. Gallagher, entered the room, flanked by Mrs. Holmes.

"And where are you taking her?" continued Mrs. Gallagher, her attention rapt on Mrs. Holmes.

"Mrs. Holmes is escorting my dear beloved sister to the dermatologist to mend that "pretty" face of hers," answered Niamh. Mrs. Gallagher shot her a glare, but when she realised who it was, her face melted into molasses.

"Well, what has the silly girl done to herself now?" Mrs. Gallagher trailed off and gasped as she caught sight of her youngest daughter. "What have you —"

"It was merely an accident," interjected Mrs. Holmes calmly. She took a step between Mrs. Gallagher and Eulalie. "She was walking with me this morning when she tripped on some uneven pavement and fell upon the concrete. I tried to clean her wounds as much as possible, but I fear we have to see a professional, the damage done is beyond my experience."

Mrs. Gallagher closed her mouth and nodded her head very slowly. Eulalie's shoulders relaxed. Sherlock was staring at her from across the table with a knowing look — _she was just about to lose her temper _— and Niamh was focused intently on her cup of Earl Grey tea. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed as it hit quarter-past-nine in the morning.

After a long moment, Mrs. Gallagher spoke.

"Well, don't be too long then," then Mrs. Gallagher left the room.

Mrs. Holmes sighed then turned to the youngest Gallagher child. Eulalie noticed her black coat was draped over her forearm, her gloved fingers clutching her handbag in front of her and the smell of mint perfume tickled Eulalie's nose.

"Are you done?" asked Mrs. Holmes.

"Yes," mumbled Eulalie. She pushed back her chair and begun stacking her cutlery and plates together. Mrs. Holmes stopped her.

"It's your birthday," said Mrs. Holmes softly. Eulalie smiled, and then promptly cringed. "Come along."

And with that, Mrs. Holmes turned on her heel and left the room, closely followed by Eulalie.

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><p>The building had not been what Eulalie had expected. It was an aged, three-storey-high, stone block with squared off windows and iron fencing around the perimeter. The garden was tamed an immaculate green and dotted with vibrant floras; a series of dormant roses had joined them up the path to the reception door.<p>

The door was a dark mahogany with thick and recently shined bronze handles, and with a heavy push, Eulalie Gallagher and Mrs. Holmes had entered Hampstead Dermatological Centre.

The inside was the equivalent to the outside. Neat, conservation tones of ivory painted the walls and the carpet, white leather onyx couches were pushed placed around low glass-top coffee tables. Mrs. Holmes directed Eulalie to find a seat before she proceeded to the desk where she chatted with the brunette receptionist.

Eulalie pushed her golden locks back from her face, careful not to push too much hair back to show her face to any inquisitive eyes. Her hair settled irritably on her shoulder, cascading towards the curve of her back, where it stayed. It would have to do, thought Eulalie.

Her eyes scanned the pile of magazines piled neatly stacked on a coffee table to her right; mostly trashy celebrity-obsessed magazines, women's magazines that boasted the best new diet to lose "those last few pounds". It was the drivel her mother and Niamh read. Settling on a _National Geographic_ magazine Eulalie perched herself precariously on the nearby couch and waited for Mrs. Holmes.

Two minutes later, Mrs. Holmes settled onto the seat next to her, a clipboard and pen grasped in her hands. A quick glance towards the clipboard assured Eulalie it was just a standard new patient information form.

"Do you have any allergies, Eulalie?" asked Mrs. Holmes. Her violet eyes browsed Eulalie's face patiently.

"Medical or the trivial ones?"

A small smile curled Mrs. Holmes' lips.

"Both for these purpose."

Eulalie sighed and begun listing her allergens, all the while, Mrs. Holmes' elegant script stained the paper in translation. Once finished, Mrs. Holmes stared at the list of allergens and medications that were listed beyond the lines provided.

"Sheridan wasn't lying when she mentioned that you're allergic to "nearly everything"," teased Mrs. Holmes. Eulalie have her a small smile.

"She hates it so much. Complains that it makes the grocery bill too expensive," quipped Eulalie.

The surgery door opened near Mrs. Holmes and a young boy stumbled in after his mother, his thick glasses slipping down the bridge of his acne-scarred nosed. His shaggy hair bopped up as he pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose.

"Sheridan has always been a little too harsh on you," said Mrs. Holmes contemplatively. "I'll be right back."

Eulalie didn't reply and returned to her magazine. It was a particularly interesting article titled _California Comeback for Blue Whales_ and detailed the population estimate on the whales and included a rare, aerial photo of a blue whale photographed under-water.

"Hi."

Eulalie inclined her head to look at the gangly boy in front of her. Her lips parted in reply, however, the words stayed stuck to her the back of her throat. Hopelessly, she closed her mouth and settled on a firm nod.

"You're Eulalie Gallagher, right?" asked the boy. He could be no more than fifteen and the yellow tint of his index and forefinger already showed the signs of a heavy smoker.

Eulalie nodded again.

"Ah," he thrust his hand in towards her. Eulalie regarded it haughtily. "I'm Patrick Smart."

"I know who you are," said Eulalie, the words holding more scorn than their intention. "And I would greatly appreciate it if you left me alone."

Patrick Smart — what an unfortunate name, thought Eulalie, considering that an infant would be better at algebra and kinetics than he was — dropped his hand and popped his bubblegum with a resonating cluck before perching himself on the armrest near her. Eulalie flipped the page of her magazine and ignored him.

"What happened to your face man?" asked Patrick. "I mean, it's pretty wicked, but you're gonna have some pretty nasty scars afterwards. Cool, but nasty."

Patrick popped his bubblegum again and Eulalie turned the page.

"Do you ever talk?" Patrick waved a hand in front of her face, which Eulalie batted away irritably. "You're always so quiet. You never seem to talk. Why did they make you Religion Captain if you're so antisocial?"

Eulalie coolly closed her magazine, placed it on her lap and turned to Patrick.

"I am not antisocial," said Eulalie. "I just speak when it is necessary to and right now it is not necessary."

Patrick's blonde eyelashes touched his cheeks twice in confusion.

"Fuck man, you make no sense. That's obviously why they made you Religion Captain," Patrick stood abruptly, turning his head towards an elderly man with thick-rimmed glasses and a lab coat. "That's my name bro, I'll see you 'round, yeah?"

Then he crossed the room and disappeared into the adjacent corridor. Eulalie continued reading.

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><p>"You're very lucky you came in when you did. That's quite some damage you've done to your face. How did you do it again?"<p>

"Eulalie tripped and grazed her face on the concrete this morning," answered Mrs. Holmes smoothly.

The room was dimly lit and Mrs. Holmes was watching Doctor Marchand tentatively clean the wounds on Eulalie's face with damp gauzes — they came away stained with pus and a little blood.

"Regardless of the cause," begun Doctor Marchand, taking a step back from Eulalie who was seated on the examination table facing the dermatologist. "She will have to avoid UV exposure for the next month to prevent any severe scarring–"

"She's going to have permanent scarring?" interjected Mrs. Holmes.

Doctor Marchand nodded.

"Most likely. If I had seen her straight after the _accident_ –"

"When she tripped this morning you mean."

"Yes. Yes, that," continued Doctor Marchand hastily. "If I had seen her directly after the she tripped over this morning I may have been able to treat it earlier, however, the wounds have already begun healing, so there will be a definite chance of scarring considering the damage she's done."

If Mrs. Holmes was disconcerted by the news, her temperance prevented that; if Eulalie's face had not been vermillion, it would have been white right now.

"Will they fade?" asked Eulalie, maintaining her composure. "Over time that is?"

"The scars will heal over time," said Doctor Marchand. "If you follow the treatment plan I give you."

Eulalie's teeth chewed her bottom lip. No words were said after that.

Doctor Marchand tentatively applied the remaining dressings to Eulalie's face and handed the pair enough dressing supplies to tide them over for two days, then ushered them out of his office. By the end of it all, all Eulalie wanted to do was cover her face in paper bag. Mrs. Holmes merely chuckled when Eulalie expressed this thought on the way home.

"It's not that horrific," said Mrs. Holmes as they passed Hampstead station in Mrs. Holmes' car. Outside the station a group of teens dressed in short skirts and low-hanging pants flirted with each other.

"No. It is," Eulalie closed her eyes. "A month Violet, a month! Niamh will be beside herself in glee!"

"I highly doubt that, Niamh can be kind."

Eulalie scoffed.

"You're starting to sound like Sheridan." Mrs. Holmes laughed. "It's not a good thing."

"I wouldn't doubt it, Eulalie," said Mrs. Holmes. Eulalie gazed at the older woman, but Mrs. Holmes' attention was firmly fixed on the road ahead. Her thin lips were pulled into a small smile and ebony bun was firmly pressed against the nape of her neck.

"It's, it's," Eulalie trailed off. "It's just disconcerting."

The smile disappeared from Mrs. Holmes' face and neither of them spoke for the remainder of the trip home. When they arrived home, Mrs. Holmes pulled the cart into the driveway, switched the engine off and turned to Eulalie. Tenderly, she readjusted the slipping dressing on the younger woman's face.

"It will be okay."

Eulalie shook her head.

"It never is okay," said Eulalie and she left the car before Mrs. Holmes could say anything more.


End file.
